


Reminiscence

by dechagny



Category: Victoria (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon Era, Canon Timeline, F/M, Fluff and Angst, If Daisy Goodwin can fuck with history then I can too, Reincarnation, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-03-29 11:57:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13926681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dechagny/pseuds/dechagny
Summary: Lord Melbourne has lived before. He doesn't remember everything about his past life, but he does know he was in love. Plagued by visions and dreams, he wants to find the woman from his past, and the new Queen Victoria is starting to seem a little familiar.





	1. The Raven

Its harsh and beady eyes followed him as he rode past the Tower. The raven had been there this morning when Lord Melbourne made his way to Windsor Palace, but it also had been easy to ignore this morning. In the morning, the shadowy figure lurked in the corner of his eye and disappeared as swiftly as it arrived. But it was no longer morning and the steadfast raven moved its head towards him with an intense gradualness that made Melbourne and his horse stop in their tracks. When they stopped, the raven ceased to move too. Its night-time eyes glared down at them over its ugly, hooked beak, passing a silent and terrible judgement over the Prime Minister. The prolonged gaze between animal and man stirred a deep feeling of uneasiness in Melbourne; his chest rose and fell in quick, shallow movements. Beneath him, his horse shook its head and snorted, trotting a few paces backwards.

The raven, growing bored of its fixed state on the wall, flapped its wings and cawed in delight toward its prey with its grotesque mouth. Melbourne took in a sharp breath and felt the fine hairs on his arms stand to attention. The devilish raven cocked its head and smirked.

Bile rose from Melbourne’s stomach and crawled into his chest. The acid forced its way up into his throat, burning on the back of his tongue. His heart quaked, and a dull ache spread from the back of his head to the front until it pressed against his eyes. London began to look as if it had been submerged in dark, dingy water. The raven, however, was still distinctly there and staring like a gargoyle.

“It’s been looking at me like that all day,” said a voice in Melbourne’s head that wasn’t quite his own. “I can’t chase the bloody thing away. It just stands there and stares.”

Lord Melbourne tightened his trembling hands on the reins again and forced himself to pull his eyes away from the bird. The stranger’s disembodied voice in his head faded into the evening wind along with his sickness, but goose bumps remained and prickled on his skin under his riding coat.

With one last mocking caw, the raven took flight and disappeared into the hell-scape it came from, leaving Lord Melbourne to gather his nerves and continue his long journey. His horse, now that the raven had fled, calmed enough to trot down the street without further disturbance. As he left, Melbourne couldn’t resist looking over his shoulder at the Tower of London and its unnerving familiarity. Even the formation of dark clouds hanging over the building triggered a restlessness in his heart. He swallowed and faced forwards again, signalling for his horse to gallop and leave that dreadful place in the dust.

* * *

 The crucial documents and notes were strewn across his desk; some were buried under newspapers and books, some were trapped between the wood of the desk and the wall, crumpled and forgotten. Others had been locked away in a drawer with the key hidden in plain sight on the chain of his fob watch. Many of the pages were musty, crisp, and yellowing at the edges but still just as important as the logs he had written a day ago.

Melbourne ran his thumb across his dry lips, casting his eyes over the paper and ink. All was quiet in his office after instructing those in his house not to disturb him for the rest of the evening, but this silence only made the confusion and snippets of conversation in his head more prominent. When he closed his eyes, the noises grew louder and a repetitive dripping sound in the background of his mind grated on him until his top lip twitched. The sound dripped in intervals of three seconds; drip…drip…drip. The water echoed in his ears and splashed against a stone floor. Even the musky smell of wet dirt and stone felt tangible. He snapped open his eyes and turned to the window to catch the leak in action. All was bone dry in the cool evening, and the incessant noise had ceased to exist.

He pulled an ink pot, pen, and handfuls of paper at random from his desk and sat where he stood on the floor, kicking off his shoes. The fragile paper crinkled together as Melbourne searched every page for a gap in which to write about his newest encounter, skim-reading the entries that had come before.

* * *

  ** _March 12th, 1837_**

Lady Emma Portman came to visit this afternoon, but she tripped down the stairs after getting her foot caught in her skirts. She did no harm to herself and laughed off the incident to begin with, however, a few moments later, she grew pale and fear flickered across her face when she looked at me. That bile rose in me again and an overwhelming sense of guilt struck me for hours after. Emma swiftly took her leave after the accident on the stairs complaining of a headache.

I believe that she now remembers too.

* * *

  _ **April 6th, 1823**_

I awoke in a cold sweat at 3:20am.

The dream began to fade as soon as I regained consciousness, but I remember the eyes of a raven and the echo of shoes on a stone floor. I don’t understand why I reacted so negatively to these seemingly harmless things but my fear for them is indescribable.

Amendment: I did not sleep again that night.

* * *

  _ **March 21st, 1804**_

That terrible bile I felt in my stomach and throat last week reared its ugly head once again today. I now believe that overindulgence is not the source of my condition.

I was quite happily minding my own business and reading by the window when it started to rain. The clouds were rolling in heavy and low until I could no longer see the words on the page and I was forced to light a few candles. From my place, I saw Percy and George outside – they were holding their jackets over their heads and making their way towards the building.

The heavy rain beating against the glass made me feel perturbed and as though I should not be here. As I stared out into the rain, I had the strangest feeling that I had forgotten something…but what I had forgotten, I could not say. My heart felt weak and I was sure that my knees were dissolving under me. The rain grew stronger as I grew feebler.

Percy and George burst into the room quite suddenly, making me leap a step or two backwards (which was met with raucous laughter from both Percy and George.) They had come to invite me to a meeting at a local bar with themselves, William D., Henry, and Thomas. I had been tempted to agree, however the headache that was forcing itself against the back of my eyes made me decline. For a brief second, I was sure that both George and Percy were in fact faceless entities. Their eyes, noses, and mouths had vanished completely. The fine, dark hairs of their eyebrows had sucked back into their skin and there was nothing but flesh.

I could tell that they were talking to me but all I could hear was the rain against the window and what I think was the cry of a raven as it flew by. Images flooded my head – memories of a time before. The raven, the rain, the candle, the acrid smell of smoke. It was all so vivid. Pain surged through my entire body in a way that I had never felt before. I sank to my knees and clutched my head, letting out a harsh wail that left my throat feeling raw.

Whatever illness that had crept up on me had fully taken hold.

The next thing I knew, I was waking up on my bed with my books scattered across the dormitory floor. I was wearier that I had ever been before and raising my head from the pillow needed more effort and force than I had. Percy and George were smoking at my bedside, dripping wet and talking in hushed murmurs. The unique features of my friends had returned to their faces and I could remember.

I remember more than I ever wanted to remember and yet…I do not remember everything.

How could I have forgotten that time?

* * *

  _ **June 8th, 1836**_

A figure of a woman appeared in my sleep. She was in darkness and I couldn’t see her face. I didn’t remember, or perhaps I didn’t know, who she was – she could’ve been anyone. I only remember that she was in a room next to mine and lamenting. Her voice in my dream was nothing but an echo in a cave, distorted and disappearing.

The woman stirred enough conflicting feelings within me to bring me out of my sleep in a confused and melancholy state.

Perhaps one day I shall find her and discover who she was then, and most importantly, who she is now.

* * *

  _ **September 28th, 1836**_

The woman appeared to me in my sleep for the eighth time this week. No amount of port or laudanum stopped her from haunting me.

Still, the most peculiar of things happened to me late this morning. I saw a young lady walking through the streets – she held herself with the utmost grace and poise with her hands clasped delicately in front of her. She was, I could tell, an ethereal beauty. It was these observations I have written about her that I noticed second.

It was her shock of brilliant auburn hair that caught my eye first. How could it not? It glowed against the sun and lured me in like the visions in my head did. I thought I had seen hair like that before – I thought it must be her – but then she turned to look at me and her face was completely blank.

I felt nothing and the lady disappeared around a corner. So close. My heart dropped and broke, and I wanted nothing more than to shut myself away for the remainder of the day.

* * *

  _ **June 19th, 1837**_

I was awake during this encounter.

A raven was perched on a wall of the Tower of London and it stared at me. It spooked me and my horse and did nothing but stare. A voice entered my head and I thought I was going to be violently unwell-

* * *

 William’s pen scratched across the page in a hurried hand until the nib snapped and splayed ink into heavy blots. Slowly the dark ink bled into the page, creeping towards his notes and disguising his written thoughts. He blew on the page with deep, short, sharp breaths in hope that the ink would dry and nothing more would be ruined.

“It’s all ruined,” he thought, getting to his feet with the paper clutched in his shaking hands. He didn’t notice that he had knocked over the inkwell. “It’s all ruined! The raven chases me as I chase a woman who only exists in my mind...This sick and twisted game has ruined my life. I shall never sleep again,” he vowed.

Lord Melbourne scrunched the paper in his hand and hurled it to the ground, throwing himself into his favourite chair. Silence poured into his mind and he allowed himself to tilt back his head, close his eyes and stretch out his legs. He pressed his ink-stained right hand to his chest – his heart beat at a steady but rapid pace. He kept his hand over his chest until his heart slowed to its normal rate, but the welcome silence was replaced.

The cracked clock on the desk ticked with a teasing, metronomic tone. Its hands were pointing at a quarter to one beneath the shattered glass and the aging cogs were turning slower by the day. The cogs creaked and moaned as they dragged themselves forward and scraped against each other. Dust lay in a thick coating over the oak, and the gilded decorations had been tarnished. The clock’s ancient sounds became a fire in Melbourne’s mind.

He opened his blurry eyes and fished around his pocket for his silver fob watch. It clicked open to reveal its black hands pointing at nine o’clock. Melbourne yawned and snapped the watch shut, dropping it back into his pocket. Bones clicked together in his back as the he sat forward in his chair and held his heavy, fatigued head in his hands, fighting back sleep.

Mild soap floated into his nostrils so gently that he thought he had imagined it. It was closely followed by a woman’s perfume that he couldn’t quite place. Every time he attempted to trace the elements of the scent and its owner, it vanished. Melbourne wrinkled his nose and breathed deeply, but he could only smell his own cologne, wet ink, and dust.

“I’m innocent of any and all crimes you accuse me of,” said the strong voice of a young woman.

The sweet-smelling perfume and soap became stronger as the woman spoke. Melbourne thought he could detect a faint trace of honey. The woman stood straight as if she were being held upright by a rod, her hands were elegantly poised at her sides and showing no sign of aggression, despite the strength and anger she exhibited as she spoke.

“It’s her,” Melbourne thought. “If only I could see her face. Turn around and let me see you. Show me who you are…”

The girl turned as the heavy wrought iron and oak door crashed close, leaving her alone. A flash of white and red…and then her face became obscured by stone walls, and no matter how far Melbourne reached for her, his fingers never got close enough. His fingers fell through the air and his hand sunk like a stone. A hollow feeling shrouded his chest and a vague sense of despair took over him.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Tap. Tap.

Tap.

Melbourne turned his head sharply towards the noise. The drawn heavy curtains billowed in the breeze of the open window, allowing the cool night air to circulate around the must-and-ink scented room. The dust from the clock on his desk was blown into the air. Another gust of wind howled down a nearby pipe and reverberated into the room. Paper from Melbourne’s desk wafted in the air and floated to the floor, landing in the dried ink on the carpet. The frigid wind whipped at Lord Melbourne’s cheeks, leaving them red and stinging.

Tap.

Tap. Tap.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

An uneasy Lord Melbourne rose to his aching feet and gingerly approached the window, his heart skulking into his mouth. He extended his long fingers out to the curtains and grabbed them, pulling them open in one hard and swift jerk. When Melbourne saw what was behind his curtains, his heart skipped a beat. He had to bite his tongue to stop himself from crying out in horror and frustration.

The raven, basking in the glow of the full moon, glared into the study from the other side of the glass. It cocked its head to the side as Melbourne took a step back, his breath catching and dying in his throat. The bird tapped on the glass again with its grisly beak.

“The window is open,” Melbourne said to the creature. “What do you want from me? Don’t torment me any longer.”

After three ticks of the broken clock passed, the bird finally cawed and pruned its feathers in reply.

“What are you? You are like no bird I have seen before.”

If Melbourne were not a wiser man, he could have sworn that the bird laughed. “No,” it agreed. “For I _am_ a bird you have seen before,” it answered.

Wind picked up again outside and moved an iron gate like a puppet. It swung open and shut with every draught that went by it, creaking on its rusting hinges. Leaves littered the street and swirled together in a myriad of colours that was dulled by the night. The smell of rain was suspended in the air.

“Leave me be,” Melbourne implored, raising his voice over the growing gales. “You’re a figment of my imagination and a ghost of my past. You cannot be real.”

The bird lifted its head and let out an almighty shriek, flying in through the gap in the open window. Melbourne shrank in on himself and raised his arms above his head as the raven flew in circles over him, still squawking and screeching, screaming and cackling. Lord Melbourne’s breath was low and quick, and his eyes were squeezed tightly shut. The bird descended a few inches, flying so close that it narrowly missed Melbourne’s head with its talons.

“She will be Queen again,” the bird said, circling Melbourne like it would its prey. “She will be Queen again,” it repeated.

The raven screamed a final time, high pitched and piercing, then flew back out of the window and into the night, the window cracking shut behind it. The wind died immediately and Lord Melbourne was left in shock.

“Prime Minister?” A hand touched Melbourne’s shoulder and he woke with a start in his chair. He scanned the room for signs of paper dislodged by the wind or any evidence that the raven had come to him again. There was nothing but the ink stain and gleaming early morning sunshine. All his papers were stacked where he left them, and the window was open once again.

Lord Melbourne gave a weary yawn and let his throbbing eyes settle on the steward in front of him. His red and gold coat was easy to see but it was the black armband on his right arm that was most striking and obvious.

“The King?” he asked, sitting up in his chair. He was met with solemn silence that spoke a thousand words. Lord Melbourne nodded and sighed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Coffee,” he requested.

Once alone again, Melbourne lifted himself from his chair and scratched at his chin. When had he fallen asleep? He didn’t know. Did the raven really come to his room and speak to him? Highly unlikely. Can birds control the wind? Again, unlikely. An unfinished glass of port sat on the table and Melbourne drank it in one large, thirsty gulp and the questions he had were forgotten.

He dragged his feet along the floor to his desk, yawning and stretching as he went before settling himself in his desk chair and searching for more paper and ink. The second drawer of his desk, which remained unlocked, contained what he was looking for and he set it on the desk. He began to write, not caring if ink became smeared or splodged on the page.

* * *

  _ **June 20th, 1837**_

Last night I had my most peculiar dream yet. It came to me in fragments, first with a smell of perfume, then the figure of a woman, and then her voice. Her face remained hidden and a wall separated us.

Why are we are always separated?

But it was the raven that has followed me more than usual over these last few days that has given me the most cause for concern. It found its way into my room and began to talk! Not only did it speak, but it seemed to control the weather.

“She will be Queen again,” the bird told me. I was half convinced that I was going mad…but then I woke and discovered that the King was dead which means, today, I am to meet the new Queen.

I believe that things are about to change.

Long live the Queen.

* * *

Even though it was late June, the trees were bearing leaves of green, orange, and red alike. Union flags were hung proudly down the street and calm hovered over the people of London as they rode on their horses, in their carriages, or walked down the street…but Royal excitement and gossip was bubbling among them like a kettle on a stove.

Lord Melbourne, clad in black, felt the sun beating down on his back as he travelled the dirt path. His body was limp, and his eyes were heavy from lack of sleep. Dressed like a mourning Prime Minister, he looked like an Undertaker with his top hat and tails but felt more like the dead.

“William, may I stop you a moment?” Emma Portman asked from her carriage. She didn’t wait for his horse to stop before asking the next question. “Is it true that the King is dead?”

Beneath her parasol and bonnet, Lady Emma looked up at William with an intrigued expression. Her chest rose and fell graciously but her heart was wild. Her husband, Edward Portman, was nestled up beside her and looking to Melbourne with an equal amount of fascination and intrigue.

“I’m on my way now to Kensington to kiss hands with the new Queen,” he confirmed, keeping his voice low. His horse had now come to a complete stop, as had Emma’s horse and open-top carriage.

Edward Portman raised his eyebrows at the prospect of the Queen. “I hear her tongue is too big for her mouth,” he said with an air of scepticism.

“Nonsense!” Emma cried, raising her chin and trying to hide her smile. “I have seen the Queen and she is perfectly formed. So, William, why the long face?” she asked him, taking in his grimace.

He paused, considering telling her the truth, but then glanced at her husband and couldn’t stop the lie from tumbling out of his mouth. “I’m tired of governing,” he sighed with a bitter smile. “I wish I could just retire to Brocket Hall and contemplate the rooks.”

Emma’s warm eyes were wide and stern. She lowered her parasol and leaned forward in her carriage. “The rooks must wait,” she instructed with a harsh tone. “Your Queen needs you, your party needs you…” she began to smile, her strict demeanour vanishing in thin air. “And I would very much like a place at court.”

The Lady Emma Portman always could make Lord Melbourne smile. Even back _then_.

“Well in that case, Emma, I say I have no choice but to shoulder my burden,” he laughed, but it was empty, and he became serious. He licked his bottom lip and swallowed to moisten his throat. “May I have a private word with you, Emma? It shan’t take long,” he assured Edward. “I wouldn’t dream of depriving you of your lovely wife for too long.”

William dismounted his horse in one easy motion. He opened the carriage door and took Emma’s hand as she stepped delicately to the ground, her lilac dress and ivory shawl fluttered in the summer breeze. She raised her parasol again and tilted it forwards as they walked, William’s hand gently touching the middle of her back.

“There is something wrong,” he admitted once they were under a tree. “Have your dreams and memories been stronger or stranger than usual?”

Emma shook her head. “No stranger than usual. Although,” she added. “Last night I dreamt that I was being chased by ferocious people with various fruits for heads…but I don’t think that’s quite what you’re asking me.”

“No,” Melbourne confirmed. “Listen, I treated you appalling back then…”

“I should say so!” Emma laughed, reaching up to touch her neck.

“But do you remember why I did it? Do you remember who I did it for?” William asked attentively. “The woman that keeps trying to appear in my memories and dreams…I think she’s getting closer. I think I’m going to find her and I think I’ll do so soon.”

Emma smiled and placed a hand on William’s arm. “I hope that you do,” she admitted. “Or you murdered me for nothing.”

A blush creeped on to Melbourne’s cheeks and he slumped his shoulders with his head bowed. The word ‘murder’ rang in his ears with as much violence as he had showed to Emma all those years ago. He squeezed his eyes shut and took three deep breaths. When he opened them again it was the sunlight that hurt his eyes, not his memories.

“You know,” Melbourne began quietly, taking Emma’s hand. “I don’t think I ever thanked you properly for forgiving me.”

“Oh, William,” Emma said softly, reaching out to touch his face. The brusque whiskers on his cheek tickled her soft hand. “It was lifetimes ago and you were a different man back then. You are not the man you once were, so why should I be angry with you? The only thing I ask of you is to find that woman and make this whole thing worthwhile. Do you have any suspicions on who she might be and where she is?” Emma dropped her hand from Melbourne’s face, aware of her husband’s staring.

“I have my theories,” William admitted. “But I’m not ready to divulge those quite yet. I have been wrong before…”

“Of course,” Emma said softly, looking down at the ground. “Poor, dear Caroline…but you must not dwell on it, William,” she informed him. “You must not let that get in your way of finding this woman. I have every faith in you that things will go right this time.”

Lord Melbourne smiled and did so genuinely. Emma was gracious and forgiving even in the face of her murderer, something Melbourne did not understand. _Perhaps_ , he thought, _I have not lived long enough to understand those complexities_.

“We could have had a very different past together, you and I,” Melbourne told her wistfully and regretfully.

Emma, ignoring the judging eyes of her husband, touched Melbourne’s cheek once more and gazed into his too-familiar eyes. The wrinkles around them were new, she noticed. So much had changed about him and yet, he was just the same. The observation sent a shiver down her spine.

“I loved you once, William,” she said caressing his cheek. “But it would never have worked out between us, my love.” Emma dropped her hand and smiled. “Now, you must leave. You should never keep your Queen waiting.”


	2. Queen Victoria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord Melbourne meets the new Queen for the first time and finds himself inexplicably drawn to her. That evening, Lady Emma forces him to remember her death.

Kensington was bustling with activity when Lord Melbourne arrived. The frantic shadows of people flashed by windows on every floor, the crashing of boxes and pans could be heard from outside and hundreds of voices clattered down into the street in a jumbled mess. No one voice was distinguishable from any other.

Beyond the tensions of inside, calm was protruding into the gardens. The soft green leaves of the trees fluttered gently in the summer breeze, and the grass had the ability to tickle the feet and ankles of anyone walking over it. Streams of fluffy white clouds were floating overhead in a tranquil sea of aqua blue. But the unwelcome sight of John Conroy walking down the stairs towards Lord Melbourne turned the garden’s atmosphere sour.

Conroy’s presence had the uncanny skill to add to the pressure of already stressful days for the Prime Minister. Even the mere sight of him now made Lord Melbourne’s stomach turn. _Sometimes_ , Melbourne thought, _I would rather endure my nightmares and the pain of resurfacing memories than have a short conversation with John Conroy._

Lord Melbourne dismounted his horse, handed the reins to a stable boy, and braced himself for the worst.

“Prime Minister,” Conroy said, meeting him at the bottom of the stone steps. “May I have a moment of your time? The Queen has led the most sheltered life until now and her mother is concerned that she should not be overwhelmed by her new position as Queen.”

Tired, bewildered, and somewhat reeling from his earlier discussion with Lady Emma, Melbourne struggled to focus in on Conroy’s words. Instead, Melbourne nodded periodically at the times he thought were appropriate and silently wondered to himself if Conroy’s overly large sideburns ever tickled his cheek, or the cheeks of the Duchess of Kent.

“…If I were to act as the Queen’s private secretary,” Conroy rambled on, completely unaware of Melbourne’s wandering attention. “You could be sure that your interests are served most faithfully.”

Lord Melbourne had to stop himself from laughing; the blatant self-serving act being presented as a thoughtful sacrifice was almost too ludicrous to be true. He raised his eyebrows and blew out his cheeks. “Thank you, Sir John, I shall bear that in mind. Good day, Sir,” he added before quickly walking on by.

A faint throb began in the back of his head as he climbed the stairs towards the door. When he turned to look at Conroy once more, he was staring back too with a sly smile that was bursting through his blurred face. Lord Melbourne strained his eyes to get a better look at Sir John’s changing face, but he couldn’t make out anything more than a pointed chin, a moustache and a beard. The image made Melbourne’s head spin and he had to lean against a nearby pillar to stop himself from falling over his own feet. He looked at the ground and breathed deeply, letting calm wash over him. When he looked up, Conroy’s face was clean-shaven and recognisable again, and Melbourne’s headache had subsided.

Fire crackled in the hallway. The sizzle and pop of the fire seemed out of place as the sun shone through the window. Heat from both the sunshine and the fire made the room uncomfortably warm; the large, open corridors and windows did nothing to quell the feverish temperatures. Embers spewed from the blaze and died in the grate in rhythmic, hypnotic movements. Smoke rose from the fire with grace, danced with the air, and then faded within seconds.

Melbourne stared down at the flickering flame barely blinking. Golden ambers and dusty reds mingled together seductively, but the smell of smoke and burned wood was bitter.

“You’ve got a fire in there with you, haven’t you?” A man’s voice asked in Melbourne’s head. “I can smell smoke.”

“Yes,” the woman confirmed from the other side of the wall that was always between them. “Are you cold?”

“A little,” the man admitted. “Will you please describe it to me?”

“The fire?”

“Yes. Listening to you talk about the fire will give me all the warmth I need. It will be as if you and the fire are in here with me too.”

The voices faded out and Melbourne found himself leaning against the mantel shelf, his breathing quick and uneven. There was something about the woman’s voice that left him feeling breathless, but he couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was. The voice was silvery; light, clear and pleasant, but surprisingly strong too. It was a charming voice for Melbourne to hear in his head, for he found there were often many unpleasant sounds lurking in the back of his mind, best left hidden and forgotten. Despite its pleasing nature, it was not the voice itself that Lord Melbourne found attractive – but he knew that in the past, he was attracted to the woman behind the voice. Perhaps that was the part that made him breathless? The mystery of the woman and her siren-like memory only attracted him to her more.

Lord Melbourne pushed himself off the mantel and took a breath as he heard the echoing of footsteps on the marble floor.

“You may go in now,” said Lehzen in her thick, deep, German tone. She stood a few feet from Melbourne, a foreboding image in black, with her hands clasped in front of her.

“Thank you, Baroness,” he answered, walking towards the heavy double doors on the other side of the hall. He could feel Lehzen’s dark eyes staring into the back of his head, and the weakness in his legs.

A doorman pulled open the doors for Lord Melbourne as he approached, and his tired eyes were given their first glimpse at the Queen. From this distance, he could see the exaggerated ruffles on her sleeves and her short but regal stature.

He strode into the room with his head bowed, and knelt in front of his Queen, the bumpy join on the floorboards digging into his knee. Melbourne took the Queen’s dainty hand in his and kissed it. Her creamy skin was like silk beneath his coarse lips and he lingered for a fraction of a second.

“Your Majesty,” he said, finally looking up at the Queen’s face. She was pretty, but plainly so. Her chin had a light point, her cheeks were plump and red, and her nose was small. The nervous pout she was sporting disguised her pink, full lips that had a pretty and distinguished bow. Her eyes, however, were what stood out more than anything. They were wide and shaped like almonds. Her pupils, as dark as midnight, highlighted how brightly her indigo irises dazzled out from her ordinary appearance. The Queen’s eyes glinted like stars whenever sunlight caught her face.

Her chestnut hair was tied neatly back, exposing her long, slender neck and the elegant slope of her shoulders. Above the neckline of her mourning dress, her décolletage was exposed; bare, and inviting.

“May I offer you my condolences on the death of your uncle,” Lord Melbourne said, getting to his feet and taking a respectful step backwards.

“He was always kind to me,” the Queen said solemnly. She held her hands against her abdomen, her fingers intertwined, and she was twiddling her thumbs. Sorrow gleaned across her face as she paused to reflect upon her uncle, but the memories became too much. She wiped her face of emotion and began to pace around the room, her short legs moving swifter than they ought to. “He had strange ideas about who I should marry, though.”

Lord Melbourne nodded. “Yes, I remember. I believe he favoured the Prince of Orange?”

The Queen turned sharply on her heel and balled her fists at her side. A deep crease was set between her thick eyebrows and a scowl had replaced her pout. “More like the Prince with a head the size of a pumpkin!”

An enchanted chuckle escaped Lord Melbourne’s lips and he looked at the Queen with wide, delighted eyes. The sudden emotional outburst at her potential suitor seemed so un-royal and yet…

Intense pain surged through Melbourne’s head again and bile pickled his tongue. He touched his temples and swallowed, groaning as he did so. The acid scalded his throat as it travelled down his gullet and back into his stomach.

“No, he will never do,” said the mystery woman’s voice. “All of these men are ugly or boring! Why would I marry someone with a nose like a fishhook?” The shadow of the woman marched up and down the room with her fists balled together and her heavy skirts billowing behind her. A moment later, she folded her arms across her chest with a tired huff.

“Because a nose like that looks becoming on some people…but also because you must marry _somebody_ ,” the man told her, laughing at her childishly charming tone.

“Do you remember what I told you when we were eight?” she asked softly, finally settling down in a chair. “We were in class together and I told you about the fate of my father’s wife.”

“Of course,” said the man assuredly. “I have never forgotten that day. You told me that you were never going to marry.”

“And I intend to keep that vow,” said the woman sternly, staring into the flame of a candle. “Besides, I’m not sure that I will ever find a man that I like as much as you.”

“Then marry me,” the man implored, reaching out for her hand. “I love you and I know that you love me too. It makes sense that we marry one another.”

The woman took her hand away from his, shaking her head. “You know it’s not that simple…I wish it was because, yes, I would marry you in a heartbeat if that were the case.”

Lord Melbourne was glad that he could not see the woman’s face in this memory because he was certain that if he could, his heart would shatter in that moment all over again. It was harder to be heartbroken by a ghost than it was a woman of flesh and blood. Still, he cursed his head for bringing sorrow to the first time he saw himself and the woman together without a wall separating them.

“Are you quite alright, Lord Melbourne?” the Queen asked, bringing him out of his stupor. “You have turned a very worrying colour.”

“I’m fine, Ma’am,” he answered, waving a dismissive hand. “I must have eaten something that didn’t agree with me.”

The Queen gave Lord Melbourne a concerned look with her sympathetic eyes. “Would you like me to fetch you a physician?”

“Please don’t trouble yourself, Ma’am,” Melbourne instructed. “It will pass.”

“At least sit down,” she said, sitting on a nearby chair herself, moving a doll that was sitting on it to the floor. “And that is a demand as Queen, Lord Melbourne.”

A smile crawled on Melbourne’s face as he took a seat opposite her, staring at the raggedy wooden doll on the floor. It was wearing a white dress made of cloth with silk detailing, and a gold crown forged from scrap dress-making material. The crown’s homemade appearance was at odds with the dress’ opulent design, complete with large ruffled sleeves like the Queen’s own dress.

“Did she come with the crown?” Melbourne asked, gesturing to the doll.

“No,” the Queen admitted, straightening her skirt. “I made that for her when I realised I would be Queen.”

“How old were you then?”

“Thirteen.”

“Were you pleased that you would be Queen?”

“My first thought was that my uncle’s crown would be too big for me,” the Queen smiled, looking at Melbourne through her long, dark eyelashes, letting herself reminisce about her childhood. “But then, yes, I was pleased. I can’t explain it…but the idea of me being Queen felt right. I felt as though this would always be where I ended up…” The Queen shook her head of childish memories and became serious. “I understand that you’re acquainted with John Conroy, my mother’s adviser.”

Lord Melbourne scoffed. “I know of him, but I would not consider us to be acquainted. I understand he has ideas on becoming your Private Secretary.”

“Absolutely out of the question!” The Queen erupted, her voice becoming intense and sharp. “He means to run me as he runs my mother…but I won’t have it. I shall not be run by any man.”

The Queen held her head high. Her ivory skin looked more like stone now as the sun poured in through the window and hit her face, shrouding the contours of her features in darkness. The passionate fire in her eyes was not quenched by the ocean blue of them and so the fire spread to her whole body. She almost quaked with the force of her own emotion.

William found himself staring deep in the Queen’s eyes, being pulled towards her. “Perhaps I might act as Private Secretary for you?” he said without thinking, shuffling his feet and resting his hands on his knees. “I imagine the dispatch boxes are already on their way to you with documents needing your signature…and there’s the privy council meeting tomorrow…”

“Thank you, Lord Melbourne,” the Queen interrupted roughly. “But when I require assistance, I shall ask for it. I have already told you that I do not wish to be run by any man and that does include you.”

“In that case, Ma’am,” Melbourne said, getting to his feet to bow. “I will leave you to attend your business.” He smiled at her gently, despite his throbbing head and queasy stomach, and walked backwards out of the room. His heart sank when the doors closed, and she was out of his sight.

* * *

  _ **June 20th, 1837**_

The Queen is a delightful young woman.

Any nerves that she possessed when we began our meeting soon disappeared into passion for her position and concern for my welfare. She is a sympathetic and caring creature with the ability to be stern and forthright.

I would have enjoyed my meeting with her a lot more if I had not had my nerves shaken by the raven last night. Fire now brings with it too many memories – more of them came to me today through the embers and smoke. The woman in my head is constantly forged by fire.

The raven itself, however, has not bothered me today. Even without this nuisance, I have been plagued by other strange occurrences and memories. That slimy man, John Conroy, began to show his previous face. The resurfacing memory was not strong enough for me to make out the finer details and identify the man he used to be, but I know he is not a friend of mine. The memory flashed by so quickly that it was barely there at all and it had gone faster than it had come. I wonder how much Conroy remembers?

The Queen stirred in me a memory of rejection by candlelight. The woman in my mind refused to marry me but admitted that she loved me…when I looked at the Queen during my attack, I did not see anything other than her current face. If the Queen was a part of my past like I think the raven suggested, then it will take a lot more than fire and quick wit to bring out her face.

At the council meeting, the Queen stood with poise in front of the men who wanted to see her fall. She steeled herself, her hands clutching together tightly until her knuckles were snowy white. Tension blew around the room like winds off a stormy sea as she began to talk.

“My Lords, now that it has pleased almighty God to call to his mercy my uncle,” the words tumbled gently out of her mouth, inhibited by anxieties.

“Can’t hear you,” called out the Queen’s uncle, the Duke of Cumberland with an amused smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

I watched the Queen swallow the lump in her throat as she tried to focus herself. She searched for me in the crowd, panic in her eyes. I nodded sagely towards her and smiled. That stony look I had seen on her earlier that day arrived again, and she spoke with fierce regal grace and beauty.

“I know that I am young,” she said, her voice filling every inch of the wide-open space, causing an echo. “And some would say that my sex puts me at a disadvantage, but I know my duty.”

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I thought I had heard a sentence like that before in a different speech directed at unsure men. I did my best to push away the memory that was doing its best to resurface, and instead focused all my self and energy on the Queen.

She took a seat in a simple throne where she was approached by Lord Ilchester. He took to his knee and kissed her hand, but she said nothing. He hovered there, looking at her confused expression and the room broke out in gossiping murmurs.

I came out from my place in the audience and stood behind her, murmuring Lord Ilchester’s name into her ear. She repeated his name and he stood, satisfied.

The Queen looked at me, relieved and thanked me without needing to say a word. I continued to whisper the names of the Lords, Dukes and Viscounts who approached her until it was the turn of the Duke of Cumberland. I took this opportunity to gather my unravelling nerves and suggested that she should go to the balcony and show herself to her people.

I needed to be on my own, so I could let my thoughts and memories run wild as they pushed at me ferociously, but I think the Queen needed me more. She looked at me and expected me to follow her to the balcony, and so, I did. The walk was agonising, but she drew me in so much that I found it impossible to say no to her and excuse myself.

A few steps felt like a thousand as I followed the Queen and I swear I had experienced that feeling before, following the Fire Woman as she rode on her horse towards waiting crowds. The wind was in our hair and terrified silence rumbled between us. When we stopped, she gave a speech, longer but similar to the one the Queen had just given, that induced goosebumps on my skin. I forced the memory away again and let it fester inside my body.

“In the proclamation I am referred to as Alexandrina Victoria,” the Queen told me. “But I do not like the name Alexandrina. From now on, I wish to be called Victoria.”

“Queen Victoria,” I repeated with a smile. The name was heavy in mouth as though it didn’t quite fit. My tongue was ablaze with sickness. It felt like my body was rejecting the name and yet, it suited her so very well.

Cheers spewed forth from the crowd as she stepped on to the balcony. She waved with a graceful right arm and stood with her head held high. I watched her captivate the British people’s hearts for one moment, and then slipped away to vomit in the nearest toilet.

Purposefully suppressing my memories has never been good for me and I fear, since the Queen Victoria brings out so many in me, I shall have to get used to the retching.

* * *

 A knock at Lord Melbourne’s chamber door disturbed him from his writing. He shoved the pages, ink still wet, into the open drawer of his desk and called for the person to enter. Melbourne rubbed at his itching eyes, smudging ink on the skin under them and turning them a deeper black.

Lady Emma Portman opened the door with a tired smile and announced herself. “Can we talk? I’ve brought my own logs with me. Perhaps we can compare notes and discover who this mystery woman of yours is?”

“Of course,” Melbourne said with growing relief. “Come in.”

“There’s something I need to tell you, too,” she admitted, sitting down in the nearest available chair. Her notes and logs were tied in bundles with string. “I was thinking about what you said to me this morning, about memories becoming stronger or stranger as of late...” she paused and licked her bottom lip. Her fingers quietly played with the twine. “Well, I have remembered my final memory from that life. I saw what happened completely before I died. I have never been able to see that until now.”

Lord Melbourne shook his head, shame creeping up his spine. “I’m eternally sorry, Emma. You must have been so scared. I was your husband and you trusted me…I repaid that trust with the worst kind of violence.”

“No,” Emma interrupted. “No, it’s not what we thought. What do you remember of that day, William?”

Melbourne reluctantly closed his eyes and let his mind wander to the day that Emma died. It was September and the sky looked more like the ocean. It was dark and grey outside; the clouds rose and fell in the air like waves. Rain tossed upon the Earth and drowned gardens and mild crops. An old image of Emma began to materialise, standing at the top of a short wooden staircase. She was wearing a white, floor-length nightgown.

Lord Melbourne’s breathing became harder as he forced himself to look. “I can remember the fear in your eyes as you realised what was happening. I remember you falling over the steps and over yourself, your head knocking against the stone wall,” he paused and winced. A tear beginning to escape from his left eye. “I can see my arms outstretched and when I listen closely, I can hear your skull fracturing and your neck snapping as though I have broken a dry twig.” Melbourne heaved a sob. “Please don’t make me remember any more than this.”

A hand touched Melbourne’s wrist as he began to slowly open his eyes.

“Keep them closed,” Emma instructed. “Trust me, William.” Once she was sure Melbourne’s eyes were tightly shut, she began to press him for more details. “What were we doing at the top of the stairs before I fell?”

“I don’t remember,” Melbourne said weakly.

“Yes, you do. Keep looking,” Emma urged. “I sent away my servants that morning. Do you remember why?”

Shivers surged through Melbourne’s limbs and he thought his head was being cracked open. With every word Emma spoke, another rush of pain came in through his crown and took hold of him. His hands shook with vehement force and his throat felt as though it was being burned. He could smell the soggy soil from beneath the window and the musty smell of wet wood.

“We were arguing,” Melbourne choked.

“Good,” Lady Emma encouraged, squeezing Melbourne’s wrist. “What were we arguing about? I sent my servants away and confronted you about something. What was it?”

Lord Melbourne strained against the memory. He pressed his feet firmly against the floor and tensed up his arms, but this only made the throbbing in his forehead more determined.

“It hurts, Emma,” he said through his teeth. “I can’t do it.”

“Yes, you can. You’re almost there. Why were we arguing? Why did I send all the servants away?”

“Because you knew I wanted to leave you for _her_ ,” Melbourne answered. His chest felt tight as though someone were pushing a huge weight against his ribcage. “You came to me and confronted me about my love for _her_.”

“What happened next, William?” Emma asked gently.

Melbourne saw Emma at the top of the stairs. Tears were streaming down her face and her nostrils were flared. Her lips were chapped from too much crying and her voice was hoarse from shouting. Emma’s light, long hair was becoming frizzy and tangled with every jerking movement as she let loose her feelings. He saw her taking a step backwards towards the stairs, her bare foot becoming tangled in her nightgown. She wobbled, she gasped, and she began to fall.

“Amy, no!” Lord Melbourne screamed, standing from his chair with such force that it fell to the ground, narrowly avoiding Emma who had been kneeling at Melbourne’s side. His arms were outstretched as he reached for the memory of his falling wife and then his eyes flickered open. “Amy…”

“That’s right,” Emma said with a breathless smile, getting to her feet and smoothing out her lilac dress. Her heart beat like a drum and her old name sounded like vinegar. “You didn’t push me like we first thought. You had tried to save me.” She picked up Melbourne’s chair and guided his limp, exhausted body back into it.

Deafening silence engulfed the room. Melbourne’s breathing began to settle after a few minutes and colour returned to his previously pallid skin. His hand shook as Emma handed him a glass of port and he raised it clumsily to his lips. Some of the burnished liquid dripped from the glass, to his mouth, then down his chin.

“I left you,” he said after his second glass of port. Emotion had died in his voice and his body felt dead too, but his mind was far too alive. “I looked down at your lifeless, broken body…and left you. I panicked and fled straight away…when they sent the news of your death to me, I pretended not to know. I betrayed you so many times…”

Emma hushed him in the voice she would use when her children woke with night terrors. “It was a long time ago, William. What you did back then doesn’t matter to me…I only care about who you are now and what you do today.”

Lord Melbourne gave a fitful nod of his head. “The girl I wanted to leave you for,” he said dryly, staring out in the middle distance. “Do you know who she was?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Emma sighed regretfully. “That was the one thing I couldn’t trace. All I could remember were the initials E.R. Does that help you remember anything? Do those initials mean anything to you?”

“No,” Melbourne told her, running his thumb across his sticky, port covered mouth. “They do not mean a thing to me.”

* * *

 Buckingham House was even more frantic than Kensington. The servants brought in their equipment in large boxes; they touched whatever they could from the dusty candlesticks and pillars to the tables and the grass outside. Despite Buckingham’s extensive size, people were still needing to dodge one another in slalom fashion. One woman ducked as a ladder came crashing towards her.

Queen Victoria took delight in running about the empty corridors, the skirt of her rich amethyst dress flowed behind her and the ribbons of her bonnet caressed her neck. She laughed like an overjoyed child as she tried various chairs and thrones, her feet very rarely touching the floor that had been decorated with gold painted tiles.

“And this will be my bedchamber,” she said to Lord Melbourne, walking into an airy room with blue and gold walls, and where most of the furniture was covered by dust sheets. She found an uncovered chair and sat herself down, smiling to when her feet hit the floor. “At least here I shall be far away from Mama. I cannot have Sir John hovering over me all the time. They think because I am small that I am still a child…they have always underestimated me, and they expect me to fail. They believe that I’m not capable of being Queen.”

Lord Melbourne gave the Queen Victoria a hesitant smile and caught her eyes with his. The purple dress brought out the purplish tones in her azure eyes. “They’re wrong, Your Majesty,” he said, his hands held behind his back in a surrender. “Besides, if anyone dares to comment on your stature then they should be sent to the Tower,” he teased.

The Tower made him woozy on his feet. Candlelight, the sound of screaming, the echoes of shoes and water, the raven, and the feeling of icy stone under his hands flashed before his eyes. He mentally chased the images away and cleared his throat.

“You have a natural dignity that cannot be learned, Ma’am,” he added, smiling kindly.

The Queen raised her eyebrows. “You don’t think I’m too short to be dignified?”

“To me, Ma’am, you are every inch a Queen.”

I’ve said those words before, Melbourne thought with a frown, barely noticing Victoria stand from her chair and approach him with that natural dignity she possessed.

“Lord Melbourne,” she said. “You offered to act as my Private Secretary when we first met.”

“You did not accept my offer,” Melbourne frowned.

“But if I asked you again?”

“Then I’d be honoured to accept,” he said with a nod.

The Queen’s face broke into a jubilant smile that she did her best to control. “Thank you, Lord M.”

* * *

  _ **June 29th, 1837**_

Being in the presence of the Queen today did not give me any notable memories. At last, relief! I was glad for this, as I was finally able to enjoy her company as myself, not as the man from the past who was trying to emerge from me.

She is easy to converse with and speaks freely, which means giving her gentle counsel is not an arduous task. In fact, talking with her is one of my favourite parts of the day. We speak like old friends despite having only known each other for nine days. Mostly, she is worth any pain that might come to me from remembering the past. With every attack, Queen Victoria remains herself. She does not become the faceless entities that I so often see and that gives me hope. However, she does not expose a past face either and that destroys all my hopes again.

The initials E.R are coming to me regularly now that Emma has seen them. Since hearing about them, I have seen them on letters in my old hands and in expensive embroidered materials. They appear again and again but every time they do, they do so with no name to put to the initials, and no face to put to the name. I know in my mind’s eye that they are the Fire Woman’s initials, but she hasn’t come to me since June 20th, the day I met the Queen Victoria for the first time.

I pray that I did not get too close to her too fast, and that she has not left me for good. I know I was getting closer to finding that woman, even more so now that I have the full memory of Lady Emma’s death. Even as I watched her die in my head, I knew this death meant something exceptional back _then_ and it disrupted so many lives, including _Hers_. I could feel it deep within my bones. But now I wonder if I had gotten it all wrong…The closer I get to finding the truth, the less sense all of this makes. Do these notes even make sense? I do not know any more.

The woman has disappeared for now and I can feel that this is a turning point in my memories, and I’m now not sure where they will go.


	3. Enemies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord Melbourne's past catches up to him faster than he anticipated. His enemies, old and new, begin to show themselves.

Hot wax dripped on Lord Melbourne’s naked shoulder. It scalded his skin for a few seconds and then cooled and hardened on him like a fragile pauldron. A moment later, more wax fell and hit his back, making him wince as it slowly trickled down his spine before solidifying into a white strip. Melbourne looked up at the candles in the iron chandelier as they slowly glowed and melted away into nothing. A heavy drop of wax landed on his cheekbone and fizzled hard.

The fire in the corner of the room did little to warm the air, the wood under his knees, or the iron shackles around his wrists and ankles. His skin was red raw and stinging under the metal, but Melbourne refused to let it bother him, glad that the molten wax was providing a different painful distraction.

A flock of six ravens were perched on a wall outside; a seventh flew in low circles over the courtyard. Lord Melbourne could see them staring at him when he turned his face towards the window. The six barely moved, but they had cawed and flapped their wings when the guards kicked the back of Melbourne’s knees and threw him to the ground like a spare bone to a hungry dog. Their black eyes could have been gleaming with joy as they gazed back at him, taunting him for what was about to happen.

The menacing woman he knelt before did not smile. She gripped the ornate arms of her throne as though she were afraid to let it go. Her light brown hair was beginning to darken with age, which made her already pale skin look like ash. She sat with a straight back with dropped shoulders, and her head was held high as she cast her cold eyes down upon Lord Melbourne. An extraordinary amount of lace adorned her neck and made her look older than her thirty-seven years.

Lord Melbourne’s mouth was dry and cracked. He licked his lips for moisture but the thin layer of saliva he could muster evaporated instantly, leaving his mouth even more parched. His heart beat steady in his chest despite the fear that was doing its best to make its way through his veins...Leading three hundred men into Norfolk seemed easy compared to kneeling before this one woman.

“You have been found guilty of treason against the Crown,” said the woman on the throne, “along with your father. Your brothers still await trial, but I shall imagine they will receive the same fate, no matter how much your father begs me that you should all be shown mercy.”

Lord Melbourne said nothing and kept his head steady, but the yells of his father in court reverberated in his head.

_Show my boys kindness! They still have so much to live for. Take me, for I am the orchestrater but, please, Your Majesty, spare my boys._

“You will be attainted,” the Queen told Melbourne, “and sent to the Tower of London where you shall await your execution. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“No, Your Majesty,” Lord Melbourne said simply.

The Queen looked to the guards, a scowl sitting on her thin mouth and her claw-like hands still grasping her throne. “Get this traitor out of my sight. The next time I want to see him will be when his head is on a spike.”

The guards seized Lord Melbourne roughly by the arms, their dirty fingernails pressing into his skin and their hands leaving deep, purple bruises by his underarms. They yanked him to his feet before dragging him out of the room, his bare and dusty feet rubbing against the floorboards that pricked his heels with splinters. The Queen’s image became hazier and hazier as Melbourne was pulled into the darkness.

Lord Melbourne woke, gasping for breath at his desk with paper stuck to his cheek and to the sound of blackbirds, robins, and wrens singing their dawn chorus. He pulled the paper from his face and yawned, rubbing his heavy eyelids of sleep.

The broken clock on the desk said twelve o’clock on the dot, but the fob watch in Melbourne’s pocket said four forty-seven. He dragged himself out of his chair and towards the window where he pulled open his curtains to let the light from the sunrise touch the unloved corners of his office. The sky stretched between orange, purple, and blue; the colours blending together as easily as watercolours.

An image of an exhausted man stared back at him as he looked in an old mirror that used to be Caroline’s. Bags were large and dark under his bronze eyes, new wrinkles were setting in his face every day, his hair was fading to grey, and he had dark stubble growing untidily across his jaw.

By candlelight, Lord Melbourne slathered the lower half of his face and neck in shaving cream and checked that his cut-throat razor was sharp with his thumb. He shaved slowly and with precision, watching himself in the mirror with an eye beadier than even the raven’s. The tricky areas around his nose and mouth were soon smooth and Melbourne moved to shave under his chin and the top of his neck. As sunlight hit the blade and sent back a blinding glare through the mirror, Melbourne’s tensed hand slipped on his Adam’s apple. A short, thin line of blood began to seep through the cut, the blobs shining like rubies before trickling down the Prime Minister’s neck.

His shocked fingers dropped the razor and it clattered noisily to the floor, a familiar discomfort grew in his head and his stomach knotted.

The glint from the sun on the axe had struck him in both eyes.

Thousands had gathered to watch the Judas be executed - they threw rotting fruit and vegetables at the scaffold and cried out ‘traitor.’

“Kill the traitor!” they chanted.

But the traitor waited with serene silence on the scaffold, the blood-stained block inches away from his ankle. The crowd began to ripple into silence and they waited for the condemned man to say his final words. He spoke with clarity and without fear…then he gently laid his head upon the block, his hands behind his back, and muttered a prayer.

The executioner raised the axe over his head, the spark from the sun once again flashing into Lord Melbourne’s eyes so he had to hold his arms over his face. With one swift swoop, the axe was brought down, and blood sprayed the block, the scaffold, and the front rows of the crowd. The head bounced and rolled across the stage, blood still spurting from the two ends of the stumped neck. The executioner put down his axe and instead raised the severed head for the raucous crowd to see. Blood drained on to the executioner’s shoe.

“Long live the Queen! Long live the Queen!”

Lord Melbourne watched from his room in the Tower as the people of London cheered at his father’s decapitated head.

* * *

 

“What happened to your neck, Lord M?” Victoria asked, lowering herself into her small throne with her eyes fixed firmly on the dried cut.

“An accident shaving in the dark, Ma’am. It will heal.” Lord Melbourne fiddled with his shirt and cravat, so the cut was no longer visible.

Victoria smiled, craning her neck to look up at the Prime Minister. “At least you didn’t cut your face. That really would have been a tragedy.”

“You have a penchant for flattery, Ma’am,” he noticed with a smile, holding his hands behind his back. “Flattery always sounds sincere when it’s coming from you.”

“I am sincere,” Victoria insisted, looking away and towards the double doors at the end of the hall. “At least, I am when it comes to you.”

Lord Melbourne felt his heart flutter. It was brief, fleeting, barely there…but it had happened. He cleared his throat and straightened his posture as the doors were opened. Ladies of fashion floated gracefully into the room and curtsied before the Queen.

“The Duchess of Sutherland,” announced the master of ceremonies in a loud and crystal-clear tone.

A woman in a pastel green dress stepped up to the Queen and bowed, holding her skirts delicately between her slender fingers. Her hair was tightly curled and pinned to the sides of her head, making the curls bounce joyously whenever she moved.

“It’s lovely to be here, Your Majesty,” the Duchess said with a sweet smile. She turned away again to re-join her husband, never once letting her graceful posture slip or her head move too wildly.

“The Duchess would be an excellent choice for Mistress of the Robes,” Melbourne said quietly to Victoria as they watched the Duchess enter conversation with the wife of her husband’s colleague. “And her husband is in the Cabinet.”

“She looks very elegant,” said the Queen, raising her head over the crowd so her eyes could follow the Duchess across the floor. “Is she respectable?”

“As respectable as a great lady can be, Ma’am,” Melbourne told her. At that moment, the Duchess laughed; her curls bouncing around her head like overworked springs.

“The Lady Portman,” proclaimed the master of ceremonies.

Lord Melbourne gave Emma a small smile as she strode across the floor towards the Queen with her husband. Melbourne quickly leaned towards Victoria.

“Do consider Lady Portman,” Melbourne implored her. “Her husband is undersecretary for the colonies and admittedly, something of a booby, but she knows everyone.”

Emma Portman now ascended the steps alone and curtsied in front of the Queen, trying not to let her eyes wander to Lord Melbourne. Her lemon-yellow dress stood out amongst the sea of blues and whites – it was a dress rivalled only by the Duchess of Sutherland’s.

“Lady Portman knew your father, Ma’am,” Melbourne said to Victoria with a smile.

“Such a handsome man, Your Majesty, and a very fine dancer too,” Emma added, a bold smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

Victoria’s whole face and body seemed to perk up at the idea of her father. Her eyes were bright and sparkling like a fine champagne; effervescent and exciting. “That must explain why I love dancing so much,” she laughed, looking to Lord Melbourne who couldn’t help but smile fondly. “But of course, there can be no dancing until the coronation.”

“Is there to be a coronation ball then, Ma’am?” Emma asked, almost as excited as the Queen herself.

“Of course!” Victoria said, but then quickly turned to Lord Melbourne with a furrowed brow. “That is, if it’s not too expensive.”

Lord Melbourne kept his smile under control. “I’m hoping you’ll only have the one coronation, Ma’am, so a little extravagance is permitted.”

Victoria’s smile began to return as she kept her eyes on Melbourne; admiration for him filled to the brim in her tiny frame. The smile she gave was soft and thankful – it made her cheeks flush rose red. Melbourne’s own controlled smile broke free of its restraints and burst from his face. His heart jumped a beat as Victoria’s cool blue eyes caught his own warm copper ones. Neither of them noticed Lady Emma silently taking her leave with a smile of her own.

“What do you think?” Lord Melbourne asked Emma as they stood in a corner of the room, watching Victoria as she greeted more hopeful ladies.

“It’s hard for me to say,” Emma admitted. “I never met that woman of yours to be able to tell.”

“Of course,” Melbourne said, his shoulders slumping forward. He took a quick glance towards the Queen to find that she was looking at him too, her hands in her lap and smiling. The woman in the ivory dress in front of her didn’t seem to have her attention at all.

“But,” Emma began, once again looking between Lord Melbourne and the Queen with a knowing smile. “If you do discover that the Queen is the woman you once loved, then I shan’t be surprised. You already look at one another as though there are hundreds of years of history between you.”

Lord Melbourne forced himself to look away from Victoria and instead face Emma. “Even if she isn’t her…there’s something incredibly special about the Queen, don’t you find?”

“She’s a great beauty and a charming young lady,” Emma agreed, keeping what doubts and insecurities she had to herself.

Melbourne let his eyes rest upon Victoria again, his soul softening at the sight of her. “It’s more than that. She gives me hope, Emma. She gives me hope.”

“Lord Melbourne?” came a voice from beside them. “Sir John Conroy would like a word with you outside,” the steward said.

“No rest for the wicked, it seems,” Emma sighed once the steward had left.

“Are you talking about me or Sir John?” Melbourne asked with a cocked eyebrow and a smirk.

“You will never know,” Emma teased.

Melbourne returned to his Queen’s side and asked to be excused. Victoria let a brief pout past her lips and then agreed, asking that he should return as quickly as he was able.

At the end of the corridor, Sir John was looming large and surrounded in darkness. The sun was beginning to set behind heavy clouds and the candles had not yet been lit.

Lord Melbourne’s boots squeaked and echoed across the floor. “I hear you have been waiting for me, Sir John.”

“The Duchess of Kent is concerned about the appointment of the Queen’s ladies,” Conroy said, his face contorting as he tried to remain polite.

“Yes, I believe it’s the first time she’s been allowed to choose her own companions,” Melbourne said breezily. “She must find it a pleasant change.”

Sir John pursed his thin lips and a deep crease settled above his brow. “It appears to me that you are turning her into a Whig puppet.”

Melbourne shrugged. “It may appear that way to you, Sir John, as a man who has never seen further than his own self-interests, but I hold myself to a different standard. The Queen is a remarkable young woman and I consider it the greatest privilege of my career to serve her.”

“You are a man and she is a very young and impressionable woman,” Conroy said through his teeth.

“What are you suggesting, Sir John?” Lord Melbourne challenged, raising his chest.

Conroy moved his head like that of a snake and licked his bottom lip. His nose was now inches away from Melbourne’s. “I cannot see into your soul,” Conroy said, “but I can see your past face and that is, I believe, close enough.”

Gaggling gurgles churned in Lord Melbourne’s stomach. The acid bubbles popped in his chest and sent searing pain through his lungs that made his forehead perspire and his breathing more laboured. “You know me, Sir?”

“Better than you know yourself, it would seem.”

“And the Queen?” Lord Melbourne asked, reaching out for the wall to prop himself up.

“Yes. I know her too…but she remembers nothing. If you’re thinking of recreating the past in your favour, you will not succeed.”

Lord Melbourne’s head became too heavy for his neck to support. He lowered it and stared at the ground, speaking only to Sir John’s black boots. “Who is she?”

“I think I’ll leave that for you to discover, Lord Melbourne.” Conroy said his name slowly, enunciating every syllable as though he were seeing right through the inherent falsity of the name. “I can see it in your eyes,” he said as Melbourne made himself look at Conroy’s blurred and twisted face. “Every time you get close to finding out the truth, she gets pulled far beyond your reach.”

“Who are you?” Melbourne asked, his throat hoarse and his lungs gasping for breath.

John Conroy’s mouth turned into a smirk. “An old friend. Good day, Prime Minister,” he said, turning away as Lord Melbourne fell to his knees under the weight of his own mind.

Images of candles, horses, a throne, iron bars, the raven, a woman with fire for hair, and a group of faceless men gathered in secret conversation flashed before Lord Melbourne’s eyes in a mocking and grotesque sequence. He gritted his teeth and pushed against them, banishing them to the deep corners of his mind from which they had come – they forced themselves back into the forefront of this thoughts.

The shadows of John Conroy’s voice crept around each resurfacing memory, sitting there like some unwanted bug on the wall. It felt as though someone were drilling a hole into Lord Melbourne’s forehead, forcing themselves into his skull. He was hunched over himself, trying to keep the bile in his stomach, his knees pressing hard into the floor…but the room was spinning. His head had gone from being filled with lead to being lighter than air.

With an almighty caw, the retreating shadow of Sir John morphed into the raven which stood peacefully on the other side of the corridor. It stared at Lord Melbourne with an empty glare for a few minutes, not moving a muscle or a feather.

“Come to torment me again, Foul Creature,” Lord Melbourne thought, his eyelids trying to fall closed. “Tell me why you have come. Who is Conroy? Who is Queen Victoria? Who am I?”

The bird flapped its wings and took flight, low and fast. Gliding in the air and coming to land with its talons sharp and bared towards Lord Melbourne’s frightened eyes.

He opened them and found himself staring at his bedchamber ceiling.

Sunlight was pouring in through the window and a gentle heat warmed his right cheek. He could hear the clacking of hooves and the creak of carriages and carts outside. The whistling of goldfinches and the cacophony of squawks from the rooks were the only birds plaguing Lord Melbourne now.

He pulled himself from his bed and found himself to be fully clothed. He trudged towards the mirror. Melbourne leaned heavily against it, searching his exhausted features for answers to his burning questions that the raven always ignored. The lines in his face told a thousand stories but none of them were ones he wanted to hear.

A glint of blue silk and brunette hair in the back of his mirror caught his eye. He frowned and turned before letting himself smile after the shock had subsided. She was sleeping in a chair, her head leaning against her own shoulder and her fingers gripping a shawl around those bare shoulders. The low neckline of her dress really is as inconvenient as it looks, Melbourne noted.

As silently as he was able, Melbourne made his way back to bed and laid on top of the sheets, his body not quite strong enough to keep itself running. His aching and wobbling legs sighed with relief as they hit the mattress. The squeaking of the bed-frame made Victoria stir in her chair; she yawned, turned her face towards the bed, and beamed.

“You’re awake,” she said quietly.

“And I’ve never had a more pleasing sight to wake up to,” Melbourne told her with a laugh. “What do I owe the pleasure?”

“Sir John said that you had collapsed and sure enough, when we came to find you…” she exhaled sadly and closed her eyes. “What happened? Nobody could wake you…I wanted to make sure you were okay. You frightened me, M,” Victoria admitted, sitting forward in her chair. “I don’t know what I would do without you.”

“I’m fine,” Melbourne insisted, smiling at the corner of his mouth. “Illnesses are for people with nothing better to do.”

Victoria smiled and reached out to touch Melbourne’s knee. “I’m glad to see that you’re feeling well. I should be leaving,” she added, standing and patting her hair to check it was still neatly pinned in place.

“Thank you for coming,” Melbourne said. “I appreciate it, Ma’am.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Victoria said easily. “It was quite amusing after a while,” she confessed. “Did you know that you talk in your sleep?”

Melbourne shook his head as he stared up at the Queen from his pillow. The sun embraced her and covered her in a golden twinkling light that was rivalled by her smile.

“You talked a lot about a girl,” she informed him, her smile beginning to drop by a tiny fraction.

“I did?”

Victoria nodded, wringing her hands together. “You talked as though you missed her and cared for her a great deal.”

Melbourne scratched his head, a mild ache pressing at his temples. “I don’t remember…”

“You were asleep,” Victoria shrugged. “I don’t expect you to remember what you said, especially if you didn’t even know that you talk in your sleep…But I do have one question.”

“Ask and I shall tell you the truth,” Melbourne told her, sitting up on the bed and pouring himself a glass of water from the jug on the bedside table.

“Who is Elizabeth?”


	4. Recent History

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a ride in the woods, Lord Melbourne starts to contemplate his more recent past. Queen Victoria finds a dancing partner she really rather likes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, yes, I just wanted to say that I have indeed rearranged the timeline of history for my own narrative gain. I know the 1804 timeline doesn't make sense historically but shhhh...ignoring history is my favourite thing to do in this fandom!

“Elizabeth?” Melbourne repeated, blinking slowly as one prickly eyelash made its way on to the white of his glassy eye. He took an eager sip of his water and set the glass softly on the bedside table. “Elizabeth. Some morose creation of my exhausted mind, I should imagine. I don’t know anyone by the name of Elizabeth.”

Victoria’s smile echoed mild disappointment as her shoulders slumped gracefully forward. She righted herself immediately, as though she had only just remembered that she was Queen. “In that case, you should rest some more, lest your mind begins to invent more mysterious women. Besides, I would like to go riding with you once you are in better spirits.”

The mattress groaned as Lord Melbourne slipped under his soft bed-sheets and rest his heavy head against the cotton pillow. “Then I shall endeavour to become well, if only for your sake, and if you order it as Queen.”

“That I do,” Victoria smiled, placing a hand on a cast-iron bar on the bed-frame. “I eagerly await your company, Lord M. Sometimes I think you are the only friend I have in this world.”

Lord Melbourne did not hear her as he had already fallen into a deep sleep.

* * *

 Autumn ravaged the woods in tones of amber, emerald, and ruby. Honey-coated sunbeams dripped through the cracks in the trees, drenching everything the light touched in a warm, sticky, molasses hue. A wood pigeon flew from its nest, sending a cascade of dying leaves fluttering to the ground. The mossy scent of damp leaves clung to the fibres of Melbourne’s coat and the lining of the inside of his nose. Mud coated the underside of his boots and smeared his previously shinning stirrups.

Leaves crinkled, and twigs snapped beneath his horse’s languid feet and birdsong gently filled the air as he made his way along the path. Melbourne took a deep breath and felt his heavy lungs strain against his chest as he embraced the early morning stillness. The taste of earth and rain seemed to strengthen on his tongue with every inhalation. Around him, he noticed the wilting of the flowers, the fading of the grass, the nakedness of the trees, and the rotting of the leaves underfoot.

_How apt_ , he thought, _that on today of all days, death surrounds me like a shroud_.

The taste of decay became heady in his mouth – and there, a few feet ahead of him in the trees that had not been struck by the sunrise - was a white light. His horse trotted towards it and the crinkling of leaves became the squelch of rotten leafy flesh.

The white light became closer, brighter, and more tangible. Lord Melbourne found himself wanting to reach out and grab it, but his fingers stayed frozen to his horse’s reigns.

“There you are, Lord Melbourne,” Victoria exclaimed. Beneath her, the white light snorted and whipped its tail. “I was beginning to think that you had gotten lost.”

“Never, Ma’am. I know these woods better than I know my own home. Your horse is striking against the dark, your Majesty. It would not be easy to hide with her if, God forbid, some assassin or madman came after you.”

Queen Victoria let out a short, sharp laugh and raised one quizzical eyebrow. “How deliciously morbid, Lord M. Tell me, have you always been so?”

“It has become more prominent as of late,” he admitted, turning his horse around so that he and Victoria could ride together towards the sun. “I think, as you grow older, it is harder to ignore the morbid.”

“Regardless, I am glad to see you looking so well - you have colour in your cheeks again. I was worried you would spend the rest of your life confined to your bed.”

The corner of Lord Melbourne’s mouth flickered into a smile. “A fate worse than death. Though, if it meant you visiting me in my chamber, then perhaps I would not have minded.”

Victoria straightened her posture and gasped, a dramatic gasp that would feel more at home on a Shakespearean stage than here in the woods between two lone friends. “Lord Melbourne, please remember who you are talking to and have some decorum.”

“Of course,” M conceded, biting back his smile as he saw the amused glimmer in Victoria’s eyes. “I hope you accept my sincerest of apologies.”

“I will, and I do,” Victoria told him, glancing in his direction. “What would I do without you?” She paused for a second, and in a blink of an eye, became forlorn. “Mama came to speak with me last night.”

When Victoria did not continue further, Lord Melbourne prompted her with an authoritative, “yes, and?”

“It’s the same as usual,” Victoria finally answered. “She thinks I shouldn’t always be guided by you,” she said with a childish huff and a nervous energy she was struggling to contain.

“Perhaps she’s right,” Lord Melbourne answered matter-of-factly, nonchalantly shrugging his shoulders. “I shouldn’t be your only adviser.”

“Why not?” Victoria asked, raising her chin and furrowing her neat brows together. The jade lapels of her riding coat waved in the breeze.

Lord Melbourne imaged her as a child, her fat fists balled together, and her pink lips stuck in a pout as she asked why she had to share her toys. “We are so often in each other’s company. We ride out most days,” he said, gesturing to their surroundings and their horses. “I dine at the palace almost every night. I would hate for our relationship to be misconstrued.”

“And yet you are the one making jokes about me visiting you in your bedchamber,” Victoria retorted, her face stony and challenging. Her mouth and eyes softened as they came to a fork in the road. “I wonder why you have not married again, Lord M,” she said casually as they took the centre path back towards the palace.

A raven screeched somewhere above them, and Lord Melbourne felt the familiar, uneasy twisting of his stomach. He licked his dry lips and found himself unable to look at the Queen, instead noticing the wrinkling skin around his own knuckles.

“My wife died a few years ago and I haven’t been able to replace her,” he said, ignoring the flash of fiery hair that danced around his mind. “She wasn’t a perfect wife, but she was all that I needed.” He lifted a hand to his throat as if to forcibly stop any other word from tumbling out of him.

Natural inquisitiveness and a childlike innocence clawed at the Queen’s heart. Her mouth was speaking before her brain had time to think of a measured and thoughtful response. “Did you mind that she ran away with Lord Byron?”

“Yes, I minded,” Melbourne answered curtly through his teeth. He forced himself to look upon the Queen as she asked why he did not disown her.

“I would find such behaviour hard to forgive,” Victoria announced.

“You are too young to understand,” Melbourne told her. “Lord Byron and I knew each other before either one of us knew Caroline. There is more history here than you know.”

* * *

  _ **March 22nd, 1804**_

“You’re finally awake, dear boy,” George said from the corner of his mouth as he lit a cigarette. He threw the burned-out match on the table beside my bed. “We thought you might be a goner.”

“No such luck, I’m afraid,” I answered groggily, watching the smoke rise and die from the discarded match. My eyes were itchy, and my eyelids felt as though they were made of lead. “You will have to put up with me for a while longer yet.”

A warm hand touched my forehead. “How’s your head?” Percy asked. How long they had been waiting for me to wake? Had they themselves been awake for hours upon hours?

“Fine, I think,” I answered. “What happened?”

“You tell us!” George laughed. His laughter was lofty, smoke-filled, but pleasant nonetheless. Percy took his hand from my head and instead ripped open the dormitory curtains, letting the spring sunlight pour into the room. I pulled the covers over my head and even felt George flinch as he sat down on the bed. “You woke up after falling ill, gabbled some nonsense about us not having faces, claimed that you had lived before and that you were not yourself, and then collapsed again. That was last night, and it is now one o’clock in the afternoon the next day,” George explained.

“Since you are not dead like we feared,” Percy said, pulling at my bed-sheets, “you will go to the rest of your classes for the day or we will send you to a madhouse.”

I was mostly sure that Percy was joking, but I still sat upright and tried to quench the panic that was bubbling within me. How much had I told them in my stupor? Did they really think I was mad? Would they tell anyone else what I had told them?

“Hm, now I really wish I was dead,” I yawned, nudging George from my bed with a teasing smile. I found I was wearing yesterday’s clothes and my books were still scattered across the floor.

“Here’s a question for you both,” George said excitedly, pacing the room with a gleeful expression, his right hand holding the cigarette as though it were an extension of himself. “Which one out of the three of us do you think will be the first to die?”

“Easy!” Percy cried, watching me pick up my books and smooth out any pages that had been crushed or wrinkled. “You’ll be the first to die, George. I can already see your epitaph: ‘Here lies Lord George Byron. He died doing what he loved; smoking, drinking, fucking, and reciting his dreadful poetry.’”

I couldn’t help but smirk and George himself seemed delighted. His eyes shone wildly under his thick eyebrows. “You can shorten that by saying: ‘Lord George Byron: he lived himself to death.’”

“If I really was dead instead of sleeping,” I began, putting my books neatly back on the shelf where they belonged. “What would you like to have written on mine?”

Admittedly, if I had not known that I had died once before, I would not have asked. Death did not terrify me or stare down at me as some unavoidable and dark entity any more. The finality of life had been lifted from my shoulders and in this one afternoon, I felt completely free. George and Percy had seemingly felt this way for a long while – I assumed this came from the fact that they were writers. They could so easily write down their fears, their insecurities, their nightmares, and their dislikes, then burn it. Throw it to the wind. Cast it off to sea. Unburden themselves.

“’William Lamb: a slave to his own passions’,” George decided.

“What about me?” Percy asked. “What do you think mine will say?”

I changed my shirt and splashed some of George’s sickly, intoxicating cologne on my neck, my mind whirring with excitement. “’Percy Shelley: beautiful, brilliant, barely behaved.”

The three of us went to our separate classes shortly after this incident and I decided that I needed to stop being a slave to my own passions. With George on my left and Percy on my right as we walked down the corridor, I felt alive in a way that I had not before.

But the weightlessness in my heart did not last. The raven from yesterday’s madness swooped in and settled on Percy’s shoulder. He didn’t move or seem to notice that this macabre creature had gripped him. I closed my eyes for a second, and when I opened them, the raven had gone and had left no trace of it ever being there.

* * *

 Emma Portman put the note on the table with a sad smile and picked up her teacup instead. The mechanical sound of the broken clock on the desk filled the silence between her and Lord Melbourne. He shuffled his notes and memory logs and dropped them on the table too.

“I didn’t think they would both take my secret to an early grave,” Lord Melbourne said, pouring himself a glass of brandy. The liquid sang brightly as it pooled in the bottom of the crystal glass.

With a gentle tinkle, Emma set her cup and saucer back on the mahogany coffee table that sat rigidly between them. “I suppose it is far easier for three to keep a secret when two of them are dead.” She smiled apologetically and tilted her head. “Do you think they will come back one day?”

“Percy might,” Lord Melbourne said, swirling his brandy to form a whirlpool. “If only to find Mary at the very least. Byron? Probably not. He thought the first version of himself was pretty perfect.” He couldn’t help but laugh.

“Why talk to me about them now?” Emma wondered aloud, crossing her left leg over her right knee. “You haven’t mentioned them before. Not like this, anyway. Has the Queen been asking questions again? Her timing on topics like these are not impeccable.”

The pale and bleak expression of Melbourne’s face told Emma everything before he even opened his mouth to expel his worries. “She asked about Caroline and Byron and I can’t help but wonder…was Caro more suited to Byron? They were both such…explosive souls. How easily I forgave her trespasses…was that because I did not really love her? Did I settle for her because I knew I could not have _Her_?” He asked, tapping his temple, the only gesture towards the red-haired woman he could make.

Emma sat forward in her chair and let a sympathetic smile bloom across her face. “You loved me once, William, didn’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Maybe our marriage didn’t end the way we expected, but we still loved each other,” Emma said fondly, those few tragic moments on the stairs all but momentarily forgotten. “You loved me, but you loved Her too. I saw you with Caroline, I saw you both with your son, I saw you when she died…I firmly believe that you loved her. But I also believe that the love you have for this unknown woman will never go away. You loved all of us at once because you were cursed with too much love in your heart, William. Your love has always been genuine, and you should take solace in that.”

“But Byron-“ Melbourne began, one hand curled tightly around the arm of his chair.

“But Byron nothing!” Emma laughed. “How sure can you be that Byron genuinely loved Caroline? Or any person he was with for that matter? What’s done is done, William, and you shouldn’t feel guilty.”

Lord Melbourne drank his brandy in two large gulps and sighed. The smell of alcohol brushed against his nostrils. “I need all the answers...this is killing me.”

“I know,” Emma said, getting up from her seat to stand behind Melbourne. She draped her arms around his shoulders and pressed a friendly kiss to his head. “One day we’ll find that mystery woman of yours and get to the bottom of all this.”

“It is not the only thing that plagues me,” Melbourne said dryly, knocking Emma away to pour another glass of brandy. His tired eyes darted towards a framed charcoal drawing of an infant on his desk.

Emma took a hesitant breath. “Do you think he will come back too? That he will come looking for you?” she asked, following her friend’s gaze.

Lord Melbourne seemed not to breathe. “I haven’t thought about it.”

“He could, you know. He will always be your son, no matter what, or who you might be in the future.” Her words fell on deaf ears. Melbourne drank in another two gulps and said nothing, he only pressed the empty glass against his head. Emma nodded with an air of understanding and stepped away. “The Queen’s ball is tonight. She will want you to be there with her.”

“Yes.”

“I must go and get ready,” Emma said making her way towards the door. “I will tell her that you are unavailable tonight.”

Lord Melbourne stood for the first time in hours, his knees clicking as he did so and grabbing his notes on his condition, only to cross the room and sit down again but at his desk instead. “Thank you, Lady Emma.”

Different dreams swarmed the Prime Minister’s head that evening than the ones had grown so accustomed to. Instead of the dreams and memories physically manifesting themselves in his limbs and his heart, he was forced to watch from the outside. A bystander looking in rather than an unwitting participant.

The child wailed and screamed with high-pitched, ferocious tenacity. His tiny body had become a sea of angry pink flesh, and his face a deep orchid. It seemed impossible for a child so young to scream so loud with lungs so miniature and fragile. The louder he screamed, the deeper the purple of his face became. A vein throbbed thick and full on the side of his head.

A woman rocked him from side to side, but William couldn’t see her face – she stubbornly kept her back turned. She hushed the child and sang quietly, cursed William for giving her this boy, and burst into tears herself.

“Let me take him,” Lord Melbourne suggested gently, touching the woman on the shoulder. Her long dark hair tickled his fingers.

Caroline thrust the baby into Melbourne’s arms and at once the crying stopped. His ears rang with silence. With a triumphant smile he glanced at his son, whose purple unmoving face glowered up at him. The baby had stopped wriggling and Caroline had disappeared into the ground.

Tap, tap. Tap, tap.

The tapping on the door woke Lord Melbourne, happily, from his nightmare. A messenger stood in the doorway, his arms folded respectfully in front of him. If he noticed Lord Melbourne’s exhaustion, his ashen complexion, the empty bottle of brandy, and the chaos of the desk, he did not mention it.

“Lady Portman says that she is sorry, but the Queen is asking for you, quite adamantly.” When Lord Melbourne gave no response except for a small nod of his head and a twitch of his finger, the messenger departed. Like so many others in his life.

* * *

 She was holding her head as though she were afraid her tiara might fall when he arrived. Her shoulders were relaxed in a way that elongated her neck and gave her the impression that she was taller than she was. The bright white of her gown swirling around her ankles made her look more like a bride dancing at her reception than a Queen with a thousand eyes watching her every move.

Even through the dancing crowd Lord Melbourne could see that her own cobalt eyes were restless. They danced around the room as much as her legs did, never settling on one person for too long. Her dancing partner did not gain the attention he wanted from her.

Lord Melbourne trod lightly as he passed the dance floor, hoping to find some quiet corner in which he could remain unobserved. Of course, Victoria’s eyes were never far away, and they glittered as she caught sight of him for the first time in his white shirt and cravat and his black tail-coat. It seemed physically impossible for her to hide her smile.

“Your absence was sorely felt,” Lady Emma said, handing Melbourne a glass of champagne. She had a habit of appearing suddenly from thin air, Melbourne noted.

He eagerly took a sip as he watched Victoria smile briefly at the Russian Grand Duke. “She seems to be managing perfectly well to me.”

“Are you going to watch her all night?” Emma asked with a conspirator’s grin that made Lord Melbourne smile for the first time that day since he had gone riding with the Queen.

Lord Melbourne shook his head, but he continued to follow Victoria as she gracefully twirled around the floor. “She’s completely heartless,” he said, swallowing another mouthful of champagne. The bubbles fizzled on his tongue. “As soon as she has a thought she expresses it without thinking. She’s far too impulsive for a Queen…and yet there’s something about her…” he trailed off, sensing Lady Emma’s amused smiled behind him.

“She could probably upset you with a thousand questions of your marriage and you would still go back to her like it was nothing,” Emma guessed with a fond sigh. “I don’t think you really believe that she’s heartless or you wouldn’t be as infatuated with her as you are.”

“I’m not infatuated,” Lord Melbourne insisted weakly. “I believe that there is more to her than meets the eye, that she’s not quite who she says she is…I’m intrigued by her. I’m as intrigued by her as I am the red-haired woman. There’s a link between them, I’m sure of it, and I’m determined to find out what it is.”

A flash of powder blue caught Lord Melbourne’s eye. He followed the sleeve and the hand attached to it as it travelled down the Queen’s spine and rested itself upon the small of her back. Fingers reaching to touch the gentle curve of her buttocks over her mass of skirts. Lord Melbourne clenched his jaw and felt rage bleeding into his body.

“Lord Alfred,” he said as the young blond crossed his path. “I think it’s time the Grand Duke found another dancing partner.”

It was over so quickly that the dancers around them had barely noticed Lord Alfred’s mangled excuses and the way he manoeuvred the Duke away from the floor. The Queen finished her turn and found herself, suddenly, without a dancing partner and only a gap in the crowd for company. She let out a thankful breath and smoothed out her dress with shaking hands, glad when a waiter offered her a glass of champagne. Victoria once again scanned the throngs of people for that familiar face she clung to, but found it gone. Her heart sunk. If the band had not been playing quite so loudly, perhaps she would have heard the squeaky echo of worn-out dress shoes on the polished floor behind her.

“May I have the honour of the next dance?” Lord Melbourne asked, smiling reservedly as she turned, almost spilling the contents of her glass. Victoria’s face lit up instantly. Whether it was from the warm rush of alcohol or his arrival, he wasn’t sure. He didn’t wait for a response from the Queen and instead placed a strong hand on her waist and the other in her white-gloved hand. Victoria didn’t resist and squeezed his hand as she put down her champagne on the nearest tray that the nearest waiter was holding. Her free hand went to his shoulder and they fell perfectly in step to the music.

“I didn’t think you were going to come,” Victoria admitted, shyness creeping in her voice.

“I had a matter to attend to,” he lied. He smiled at the way her necklace was slightly crooked on the right side of her chest and admired her all the more for it.

Victoria raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were cross with me after this morning,” she said, meeting his eyes. It wasn’t until now that she noticed the flecks of gold buried beneath the deep brown of his iris.

“I could never be cross with you,” Melbourne realised as he looked at her elegant face that was teetering on the edge of being chubby. There was not a single line on her features that should not be there, not a hair out of place, or a dark bag under either eye. Victoria’s skin was soft and supple, her cheeks had a healthy pink glow. Her eyes glimmered with hope. Youth was firmly on her side, and with it came the impulsiveness of her character and the curiosity she had for life that only eighteen-year-olds can possess.

She stumbled on her feet and laughed, feeling Melbourne’s grip on her tighten. She looked at her dancing partner without an ounce of embarrassment. “You dance so well. I wish I could dance with you every night.”

Lord Melbourne narrowed his eyes, noticing how easy it had been to start dancing with Victoria, despite her short stature. He had touched her waist and held her hand, standing at the optimum position and posture so that their dancing bodies would fit together as easily as connecting puzzle pieces. The stumble had not thrown him off-step like it usually would. A fire burned in his throat.

“We have danced together before,” he said, barely noticing that he had said it, staring intently into Victoria’s eyes. In this light, Melbourne was sure that her eyes were not a deep blue, but rather, a warm brown. His own eyes began to glaze and, to resist another surfacing memory, he blinked away the haze and focused himself on the now. He listened closely to the sound of violins drifting through the hall, allowed himself to notice the firm pressure Victoria placed on his shoulder and hand, and how she smelled like some floral perfume he could not place. He opened his eyes to a sea of colour and Victoria’s concerned blue eyes.

Victoria frowned and tilted her head. “Are you quite alright, Lord M? We have never danced together before tonight.”

“Of course,” he muttered. “I think I must be tired. If you would excuse me, Ma’am, I would like to rest a while. Perhaps I am not fully recovered.”

Her shoulders tensed as she let go of Lord Melbourne and she felt the ache from the absence of his touch in her chest. “Yes, go and do what you must. I’ll be here when you return.”

“I have no doubt about that, your Majesty,” he answered with a smile. He let his feet hurriedly take himself away from the hall, but stole a last glance at the Queen as he went. She was watching him leave with a face full of longing, and under the candlelight, her hair glowed red.


End file.
